Christmas in the Tavern
by Answer
Summary: It's almost two years since Gaston led the attack on the castle and the village is celebrating his miraculous recovery from the injuries sustained in his fall. Only one person is left out of the festive cheer. One-shot. Happy Holidays!


It was Christmas Eve in the tavern. The ale was flowing, good times and laughter were plentiful, and the roaring fire was a strong defence against the snowy storm outside. Serge, the tavern's owner, already had this one marked down as a very merry Christmas. Last year had been subdued: with the town's hero out of action following a bad fall that night up at the castle, no one had much felt like celebrating. But since then, everything had changed. For one thing, the village had been swept willingly along in the tide of national joy at the unexplained but welcome reappearance of the kingdom's previously missing crown prince. But, far more powerful and cheering to the residents of this provincial town had been Gaston's astonishing recovery. Some said it was witchcraft, others swore blind that God himself had seen fit to restore the health of so deserving a man. Personally, Serge was willing to nod sagely and agree with whatever theory his customers proposed; taking care to mention, if it could possibly be shoehorned into the conversation, the many and varied healing powers of alcoholic beverages, such as could be purchased in his establishment.

There was no denying that Gaston's recovery had been impressive. For months he had been confined to his bed, a mess of broken bones, growing weaker with every passing day. And then, one ordinary evening in the summer, Serge had glanced up from the bar to find his old favourite patron striding through the open door as though he owned the place, just like always. When asked what had happened, Gaston would simply smile and shrug, though he no doubt preferred the God story. "What can I say?" he would beam. "Good things happen to the best people."

A puzzle indeed, though Serge didn't care to look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever the explanation, Gaston's presence in the tavern was good for business. Whatever others drank, he drank double, and a good story of hunting prowess could be relied upon for a good evening of celebration all round. But his condition wasn't the only change Serge had noticed. He filled another tankard and carried it to the other end of the bar. There was only one man here, away from the tipsy revellers by the fire.

"Another one for you, Lefou?"

The man nodded, accepting the drink and tossing a coin onto the bar. Serge swept it up and retreated. It was the silence that unnerved him. Lefou had never been like that before. True, he'd never been popular in his own right and it didn't seem as though anyone missed his company now that he kept himself to himself. But this... this wasn't right. In the old days, before Gaston's accident, he'd been a different man. Serge could see him now, eyes shining with excitement and reflected glory, recounting Gaston's latest heroic exploit while the man himself just lay and bask. Anyone would have been proud to be Gaston's constant companion, but to Lefou – somehow, it was everything. You could just tell.

Lefou watched Serge shuffle back up the bar, ready to fuel the increasingly drunken party well into the night. Had he detected pity in the man's eyes? Hard to say. There was no shame in drinking alone, not in this tavern. On any other night he would have been in good company, so to speak. But this was Christmas, and it seemed like everyone had a place to be and someone to be there with.

He looked across the room and for the briefest of moments, his eyes met Gaston's. He quickly broke eye contact, surveying the other members of the party instead. It was ridiculous. He was Gaston's friend, companion, confidante. How could he fail to hold his gaze? But he had failed. He had failed himself and now he was failing his friend. He willed himself to get up, to walk over and join the party, to make everything the way it used to be. That was what Gaston wanted: no trace of what had happened, no evidence that he had ever been defeated. And he wanted, desperately, to give Gaston everything he wanted.

_Gaston..._

He couldn't. Not this time. Instead, he stared into the foaming tankard and, for what could easily have been the thousandth time, he let himself be carried back to the summer, to that day, that hour, that minute...

_He'd only gone outside to clear his head. He'd sworn never to leave Gaston alone, but it was only for a moment. It got difficult to breathe in that room. He didn't have the words to describe it, but he knew he was sad, sad for Gaston, in a way that felt like it would never go away._

_He stood only a few steps from the door, leaning against a plum tree. Fruit hung from its branches, dull and purple like a bruise, but firm and sweet. A warm breeze played across his face. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. _

_When he opened them, an old woman was inches from his face. He blinked, taking an unconscious step backwards._

"_Did I startle you, my dear?" Her voice could only be described as rasping and it came from a face twisted cruelly by age. Life had not been kind to her._

"_Y-yes," he stammered, apparently so weakened by emotion and exhaustion that an old woman could reduce him to stuttering. "But I'm alright now."_

_She smiled. She didn't have many teeth. "Oh, good. I wonder if I might trouble you for a moment of your time. You see, I am but a poor old woman with nothing to live on and..." She let her eyes wander to the ripe plums above them. The hint was clear._

_Lefou shrugged. He'd been meaning to pick the fruit but somehow never got around to it. It might as well feed a beggar as spoil. "Sure," he said. "Here, I'll pick some for you."_

_The woman let out a laugh. It was surprisingly high and clear. Like bells, he thought._

"_Bless you, no!" she cried. "A man of your stature – I'll be here all day."_

_Even in his weakened state, Lefou felt anger rising. Of all the ungrateful..._

_She continued. "Tell you what. For your kindness, I'll give you something in return. Why don't you make a wish?"_

"_A... wish?" He frowned. This was getting weird and he didn't know what to do._

_She fixed him with a look that was gentle but unwavering. As he stared into her eyes, bright green eyes, the face around it seemed to soften, the lines melting away. When she smiled again, her mouth was full of teeth, straight and white. "What do you want?" she asked him. "What is your heart's desire?"_

_The word was almost out before he could stop it. _Him_. That was all he wanted. He let the fantasy play out in his head once again. They had said Gaston would get better, that much was true, but he would never be strong again. He'd be free to move around, but his days as a hero would be behind him. He felt awful about this dream, about the man he'd devoted himself to, weakened, stripped of his powerful status. But then, maybe, just maybe... with all his adoring friends losing interest, he'd look to the man who'd been beside him all along and always would be. Maybe in the face of all that... maybe he'd be glad to have Lefou. And that was all he asked for. Gaston would always have his boundless respect, his unending friendship, and utter, total devotion. All he wanted, all he craved, was to know that Gaston needed him there. And there was something about this woman. Somehow, he knew, she could make that happen._

_A wish. One wish._

"_Make Gaston better," he said. "My friend, he's inside, he's badly injured – please, make him better."_

_The woman stared at him curiously a moment longer, then turned away. "It is done," she said. And then she was gone._

Lefou drained the last of his drink and left the tavern without looking back.

* * *

It was Christmas morning. A thick layer of snow glittered on the ground, almost undisturbed by human activity. Almost.

Gaston woke up late, a little worse for wear thanks to his night in the tavern. He eased himself out of bed, cringing at the blinding white light streaming through the window, reflected from the snow below. Nonetheless, he made his way across the room to look out, as he always did, across the village. His domain. His kingdom.

He leaned out, savouring the cold air, pushing the headache into that part of his mind where he kept the things he wanted to ignore. Now that the snow had stopped falling, he could see well into the distance. He grinned. It was Christmas day and, as always, the world was gift-wrapped for him. He ducked back inside, braced by the cold air and ready for his morning five-dozen eggs. It was going to be a good day.

A few paces from the window, he paused, then paced back again. This time, he directed his gaze at the ground below his window. There were footprints in it. Just one set – you didn't get to be a respected hunter without knowing a thing or two about tracking – but they weaved around in a curious pattern. He frowned over it, puzzled. Some of the symbols the tracks made were familiar. He squinted, thinking hard.

I.

Yes, that one was an I! So, they were letters. Someone had written something in his garden! But...why? Who needed letters when you could just shout? Still, he was curious now. He stared hard at the next shape.

It took him a while, but eventually he identified all of the letters. Now, to remember their sounds.

I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U

Il-ov-yo-uh? No, that wasn't it. That didn't mean anything!

Illo-vay-oo? Wait, that sounded kind of like...

I love you?

What a funny message to write in the snow, he thought. Everyone loves me.


End file.
